Hitting the Bar
by Rainy Meadows
Summary: It's all very well to have power and some degree of fame, but hey: even reapers and countries need someone to talk to every now and then, don't they? One-shot. No shipping. Rated T for language.


**A/N: I seriously can't believe I decided to make a story out of a random idea I had out of nowhere! Please excuse any OOCness as it isn't deliberate.**

**Translation: _damen_ = ladies**

* * *

You'll find that there's a bar like it in every single universe that has ever existed or ever will exist in the future. There's one in this world too if you search for it in the right place. It's not so much a bar for freaks or weirdos as such, it's just…

It's a place where people can be themselves.

The best part is that no matter what they do, it's almost always considered completely natural: no-one will call them strange or look down on them.

Unless they're causing trouble of course.

And right now, Gilbert Bielschmidt was causing no end of trouble.

"Hey!" he shouted, dancing around and waving his still half-full glass carelessly around in the air. "Hey-ey-ey-ey-ey! W-where's… where's all the… where'sh all the _damen _at? C'mooooooon!"

He slumped over the bar, eyes half closed and spilling the remainder of his beer over the wooden counter.

"Gonna get shum hot shtuff baby thish evenin'," he half slurred, half sang.

Alfred F. Jones buried his face in his hand to hide its growing redness.

'That's it,' he thought. 'This is the last time I go out drinking with a European dude.'

"Hey, you!"

The tall albino smacked a heavy hand onto the shoulder of the patron seated next to Alfred, who eyed the unfolding scene with increasing embarrassment.

"Aren't you way young to be in a plashe like thish?" Gilbert asked. "Yo junior, the pony rides are out back!" He cackled raucously at his joke.

"Could you please leave me alone?" asked the victim. "I'm trying to enjoy a little time away from home and you're really beginning to get on my nerves."

He _was_ young, Alfred noted. The boy couldn't have been a day over fifteen, and yet here he was sitting at a bar holding a small glass of what appeared to be Bailey's on the rocks. Sure, he was snappily dressed with the suit and all, but he was still only a kid.

"What're ya doin' here?" Gilbert slurred. "Like hangin' 'round with the big boys, huh? Like to feel bit older than ya actually are, huh?"

"Leave me alone," the boy requested, a little more pointedly this time.

The drunken nation leaned in closer, tightening his grip on the boy's shoulder.

"Wanna get invaded, huh?" he growled maliciously.

The boy's hand shot up as fast as lightning and seized Gilbert's wrist in a vice like grip which should have been impossible for someone so small. He prized the shocked nation's hand away from his shoulder and looked him dead in the eye. With his back turned Alfred had very little idea what was going on, but the drunkard was suddenly looking severely more sober, his wine-coloured eyes fixed on the boy's face and widening in shock.

"**Go away and stop bothering me**," the boy commanded in an alarmingly deep voice which echoed like the slamming of a sarcophagus lid.

Then he released Gilbert's wrist and turned back to his drink, but not before shooting Alfred a look which clearly said 'What the hell are you looking at?' and Alfred suddenly became a lot more interested in the contents of his glass.

Gilbert, meanwhile, had fallen asleep on the floor. Either that or passed out.

"Shit," Alfred swore. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled the number he should have dialled the moment the idiot had asked for a fifty-third round, then waited for someone on the other end to pick up.

Eventually, to his great relief, they did.

"Ludwig, is that you?" he asked. "Listen, I- oh hey, Feliciano! Wassup? Nothin' much, I just- what? …What? …What? …What? …What? …Listen- what? No way, really? That's hilarious! …What? No, dude, listen- what? …What? …Hey, could you- …Could you- nah, listen, could you-"

There was a rather lengthy pause.

"Will you shut the hell up and let me talk for a second?!" he nearly shouted. "Thank you! Listen, tell Ludwig that his idiot brother just passed out on the floor and if he doesn't come to get him within the hour I'm leaving him in the middle of the street in a shopping cart with the Stars and Stripes tattooed on his forehead."

Another pause.

"Thanks, dude," he said eventually. "I owe you one. Yeah, I know… I know… dude, I know! Jeez, you're worse than Iggy sometimes! …Later."

He folded the phone back into his jacket and took another swig of beer.

It was then that he noticed that the boy Gilbert had been harassing was looking at him with a faint smile.

"What?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing," said the boy, looking away. "It sounds like your friend on the phone was rather talkative."

"Heh, you don't know the half of it," said Alfred. "You just gotta make sure you keep the conversation away from pasta, otherwise you'll never get him to freakin' shut up!"

"Trust me, I know how you feel," said the boy. "I have a friend where I live who never knows when it's an appropriate time to be quiet. For him, the 'indoor voice' is something that happens to other people."

And now it was his turn to say "What?"

"I seriously can't believe I'm saying this," said Alfred, "but Gilbert was right: aren't you, like, _waaay _too young to be anywhere near a place like this?"

The teenager smiled again.

"Trust me," he said, "I'm a lot older than I look."

He finished his drink.

"Besides," he continued, "my body is naturally resistant to alcohol, which means it's impossible for me to get drunk even if I tried to drown myself in tequila."

"What do you mean by that?" Alfred asked curiously. "You a nation or something?"

"A nation? I'm not sure I understand."

"'Coz if you are, how come I've never seen you at any of the meetings?"

"I'm not a nation, whatever that is," said the boy.

"Well then, what the hell are you?" asked Alfred.

The boy gulped. It was obvious that he was nervous, what with the bombardment of questions and all. Alfred considered that maybe he should back off a little.

"It's a little too complicated to explain," the boy said simply.

He knocked on the counter.

"Excuse me, barman?" he said, loudly but politely. "Could I please have another drink?"

"Sure thing, kid," said the barman, a tall moustachioed man wearing an apron. "Rough day, eh? Girlfriend dump you or something?"

"Actually no," said the boy. "I just wanted a little time away from home, that's all. Just a bit of time alone with a good drink."

The glass was refilled and he took a long sip.

"Wait a minute," Alfred said suspiciously.

The boy lowered his glass and eyed the bespectacled man curiously.

Alfred looked him over and took in every detail. There was something inherently familiar about this young man: maybe it was his two-toned golden eyes or the immaculately pressed suit. Maybe it was the skull brooch in place of a tie, or maybe it was the three white stripes which marred the left side of his head.

"Nope," he said eventually, "still can't place you. Sure I've seen ya before though."

"You never know," said the boy, "maybe you have."

He looked at Alfred, eyes wandering upward, and suddenly froze.

"Dude, is something wrong?" asked the blonde man.

The boy lowered his glass slowly.

"Your hair," he said quietly, "that cowlick… are you aware that your hairstyle is asymmetrical?"

In the awkward pause that followed, Alfred considered that maybe the boy had been lying and the alcohol was starting to get to him after all.

"So?" he asked. "What's the big deal?"

"What's the big deal?" the boy repeated with the same tone someone might use after being asked the same thing about their cat being run over. "You're completely imperfect and you have the nerve to say 'what's the big deal'?!"

"Yeah, what's up with that?" asked Alfred in confusion. "I mean, it's not like your hair's symmetrical. What's with the stripes? You an emo or something?"

The boy blanched and for a moment looked on the verge of either erupting with tears or exploding with concentrated rage.

"Please don't talk to me about that," he said in a quiet, almost sad voice. "I've had them for all my life and there's no possible way of getting rid of them! Even if I shave my head they'll still be there, marking me, mocking me, making me disgusting!"

"Whoa, jeez, chill out," said Alfred, leaning back in shock at this outburst.

Now that he looked more closely, he could see that no matter which way the boy's hair moved, the stripes remained in exactly the same place on his head. It was as though they weren't so much a part of his body as projections: images being broadcast onto his head. The effect was unearthly and somewhat unnerving.

"Dude," he said, "you're sitting there calling me imperfect and stuff, but I don't even know who the hell you are."

Sensing that this awkward moment was passing, the boy began to smile once again.

"Very well then," he said, "I'll tell you my name if you tell me yours."

"Sounds good to me!" Alfred cried enthusiastically. "Who am I, you ask? The name's Alfred F. Jones. _The one and only_ Alfred F. Jones. Not to be confused with the other famous Jones guy: you know, the one with the cool whip and stuff? Totally unrelated."

"Interesting to meet you, Alfred F. Jones," said the boy. "My name is Death the Kid."

The words hit Alfred with all the force of a tidal wave made entirely out of golden syrup.

"No way, _seriously?!_" he virtually shouted. "THE Death the Kid?! I thought I'd seen you somewhere before! Aren't you the Grim Reaper's son or something?! Dude! I had no idea I was drinking next to Death's son!"

"Would you mind shouting a little louder?" Kid asked sarcastically. "I think somebody on Mars didn't hear you."

"What the hell are you doing in a bar drinking…" Alfred looked at the boy's glass, but still wasn't quite sure what it contained. "…whatever it is you're drinking? You're a total legend! Son of Death himself! Aren't you the guy who stopped the Brooklyn Demons?"

"If you're talking about the infamous Thompson sisters," said Kid, "then yes, it was me who took them off the streets and introduced them to a life of civility."

"All by _yourself?!_" Alfred fangasmed. "That's AWESOME! Not even all of Iggy's best cops could track 'em down and catch 'em, but you did it single hand? And you're just a kid! Damn, what kind of badass are you?"

"Why are you asking me all of these questions?" asked Kid. "I barely even know you. How do you know so much about me?"

Alfred tried, with extreme difficulty, to hide his discomfort at this inquiry.

"I-I'm just a curious guy, that's all," he lied. "You're the son of Death, who wouldn't want to know more? It-it's not every day that you get to sit down and have a friendly conversation with a Grim Reaper."

"Then why did you just hesitate?"

It was at this point that Alfred realised he had dug himself into a damn deep hole. He had no idea whether he'd be able to dig himself out again without causing grievous bodily harm to someone in the room.

"I like turtles," Gilbert groaned drunkenly in his stupor.

Kid and Alfred looked down at the moaning albino. Alfred nudged his face with the toe of his shoe and the larger man began to drool. They turned back to the bar and tried to ignore him.

"I…"

Alfred's mind was racing, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for his curiosity which meant that he wouldn't have to reveal the nature of the nations. He was amazed that the young reaper hadn't asked more about them when he had first mentioned them.

"Hey, what's with all the questions?" he asked, cursing himself for the desperation evident in his voice. "C'mon, Kid – is it cool if I call you Kid? I'm drinking next to a Grim Reaper; can you blame me for being nervous?"

He started laughing: the kind of laugh a person uses when they're more scared than they've ever been in their whole life.

'Ohshitohshitohshit I'm in for it now!' his mind was screaming while his body chuckled uncontrollably. 'Did I piss him off? I hope not! I've heard some pretty badass things about this guy. He might just be a teenager, but he could probably pull my soul right out of my body if he wanted to! What am I gonna do now?'

When he opened his eyes to hazard a look at the young reaper, he noticed that he was being quite thoroughly scrutinized.

"Dude," he said, feeling like an idiot for it being the first word to pass through his lips, "Is something bothering you?"

Kid was staring intently at him with his chin cupped in his fingers. One of his eyebrows was raised, giving him an expression of either absolute disappointment or extreme confusion.

"Hello?" Alfred waved an experimental hand in front of Kid's face, hoping to induce some reaction, but none came. It was as though the boy was in another universe entirely.

Then he moved. His hand moved away from his chin and started inching, trigger finger outstretched, towards the nation's face.

"Hey, what're you doing?" asked Alfred, paralysed with fear. "Kid, cut it out, you're giving me the creeps."

Kid paid no heed to the unnerved nation, his finger moving ever closer to the blonde man's face. Alfred tried to lean back, but came dangerously close to falling off his stool. The young reaper's finger drew ever closer, moving towards his face and…

…pushed his glasses up his nose.

Everything froze for at least half a minute while Alfred stared, eyes crossed, and the finger which now ran up the length of his nose.

"Dude," he said eventually. "What. The hell. Are you doing?"

Kid retracted his arm.

"Your glasses were unevenly balanced on your nose," he explained. "It was beginning to get on my nerves, so I decided to do something about it. I apologise if I made you uncomfortable."

"Oh no," Alfred deadpanned, "people just adjust my glasses without my permission every day. It's practically a national past-time for teenagers who I've just met in a bar to fiddle with Texas."

It was Kid's turn to stare.

"You call your glasses Texas?" he asked in an obviously confused voice. "And what's that, Utah?" He pointed at the little flick of hair which stood up almost electrically from Alfred's forehead.

"What? No!" Alfred exclaimed.

"Really?" asked Kid as he sipped his drink. "That's something of a relief."

"This here's Nantucket," Alfred explained enthusiastically, giving the freestanding hair a small audible _twang_, and pointing downwards he added, "Utah's the big toe on my left foot."

He picked up his glass and chugged until not even a dreg was remaining.

And it was only afterwards that he noticed a young reaper staring at him as though he had suddenly sprouted pink fairy wings out of nowhere. With an eyebrow raised, he looked as though he was trying to say a word beginning with the letter W, but hadn't got much further than half-forming his mouth around the letter.

Long story short, Kid was utterly dumbfounded.

So it didn't help matters when Alfred burst out laughing.

"Dude," he laughed, "You should totally see your face right now, it's so priceless! H-Hang on a sec!"

He pulled out his phone and took a photo of the paralysed-with-confusion Kid.

"I'm totally gonna send this to Mattie," he said, and began tapping like crazy on his phone while reading what he was writing out loud:

"Yo… dude… out… drinking… with… dumbass… Gilbert… check… out… this… guy's… epic… WTF… face… send!"

He closed the phone, set it down on the counter and waited. Less than a minute later (these kinds of bars always have excellent reception for some reason) it vibrated loudly. Alfred snatched it up and snapped it open.

"HA!" he shouted. "That's hilarious!"

Resting on the bar, Kid's fingers curled into a tight fist.

"Are you ever going to tell me who you actually are?" he demanded, frustration levels growing ever higher.

It was a shame that Alfred F. Jones had never been very good at reading emotions or judging a situation, so he didn't notice anything off about Kid's tone of voice.

"What're you talking about?" he asked. "Didn't I already tell you?"

"You told me your name," Kid stated. "Alfred F. Jones. That was all. You didn't actually tell me who you _are_."

He looked the man up and down.

"Could you please hold still for a moment?" he requested.

"Huh?" Alfred was confused. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to look at your soul."

The older man froze.

"Don't worry," Kid added in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring tone. "It won't hurt or anything, but you might feel a slight tickling sensation in the middle of your chest."

Alfred gulped.

"W-well," he stammered, "okay then."

He watched as the boy's eyes turned down to his chest and narrowed in concentration.

The sensation of soul perception was one that could only be described as eerie. Alfred raised a hand to his chest and felt his body carefully, but there wasn't anything out of the ordinary, which definitely came as a surprise. It felt as though ice was spreading through his body, originating at an area somewhere in the centre of his torso. Then the ice melted and was replaced with a feeling akin to a spiderweb being spun inside his body.

'Whoa,' he thought. 'This is just- this is _freaky_. Is this what having your soul examined feels like? There's no way I could ever get used to this.'

Kid furrowed his brows.

'What's that about?' Alfred asked himself. 'What, has he never looked at the soul of a country before?'

So it came as quite a surprise when Kid leapt backward so quickly that he crashed to the floor in a mess of stools and flailing limbs. He finally came to a rest staring up at Alfred with eyes overflowing with shock and amazement.

"Y-you…" he stuttered. "You're a-a _country?!_"

"Yup," Alfred said. "The United States of America, to be exact. Man, I never thought a Grim Reaper freaking out would be so damn funny!" He buried his face in his hand again, but this time his entire body was shaking with silent and badly concealed laughter.

Kid's eyes wandered over to the still-unconscious Gilbert, who was now moaning something about a pony.

"Him too?" he asked.

Alfred nodded.

"I guessed as much," said Kid. "I don't think anyone else could have drunk sixty-four beers and still be able to keep their eyes open, let alone stagger around like he did. Which country is he, then?"

"Prussia," Alfred replied simply.

"Wasn't that country dissolved after the Second World War?"

"Well, yeah but… I dunno. He's just sorta _here_. He keeps going on and on about how awesome he is, so maybe the real Prussia's gone and it's just his ego left. In any case, he's a stuck-up idiot and a boozer."

He got up of his barstool and offered Kid a hand. The young reaper took it with both and climbed to his feet. When he was up again, Alfred started to rub his fingers.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me your hands were so damn cold?!" he demanded. "I feel like I just stuck my hand in a bowl of ice! What's that about?"

Kid pointed at his skull brooch.

"Take a wild guess," he said.

Alfred laughed quietly as he sat down.

"And I thought Russia had the touch of death," he commented, and in the privacy of his mind he added 'If his hands are so cold, why the hell does he have ice in his drink?' He signalled the barman for a refill before taking a long pull of chilled alcoholic beverage.

"You're not a representative of the country," Kid stated as though still trying to wrap his head around it. "You're not like an ambassador or a ruler. You're the humanoid embodiment of the country itself."

"Nailed it," Alfred said cheerfully.

Kid was silent for a moment.

"What's that like?" he inquired.

"Hmm?"

"I'm assuming from what you said that every part of your body represents a part of the landmass. What's it like? Can you feel everything that's happening? I can't imagine what it must be like to experience an earthquake or some other kind of disaster."

Alfred visibly winced, and Kid realised that maybe he had make a mistake.

"I'm sorry," he said hurriedly, "I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," said Alfred. "It's just that… well, you probably already know that I have something of a turbulent past. There was the War of Independence in the 1700's and the Civil War and… and the World Wars and…"

He buried his face in his hands.

"Crap," he swore, wiping his eyes. "Getting all emotional. Truth be told, it sucks, okay? Being the physical embodiment of a country means you can feel every single thing that's going on. Every time someone's born, every time someone dies… you know what pins and needles feels like, right?"

Kid nodded, all too familiar with the odd prickling feeling which came from remaining in one position for too long.

"It's like that," Alfred continued, "only it's really faint. And it's _all the time_. Boozing kinda dulls it. Makes me feel normal, if only a little."

He swigged his beer again.

"What about you?" he asked. "What's it like being a Grim Reaper? Y'know, the whole 'ushering souls into the next realm' thing."

"That's not actually what we do," Kid explained. "If a soul is pure and good it can pass on by itself. My father and I exist to preserve perfect balance in this world – not just between good and evil, but in everything."

He looked across the bar.

"Speaking of which…"

Without saying another word, the young reaper stood up, walked around the bar and began rearranging the bottles on display.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Alfred.

"I just noticed that the bottles are arranged unevenly," said Kid without turning around. "I'm sure that the barman won't mind if I bring a little more order into this place."

Alfred looked over at the barman, busy polishing a glass. He just shrugged, so the nation decided to watch as Kid diligently and swiftly organized the bottles in an arrangement almost completely different to what it was before. One thing was for sure though: it was definitely neat.

When the young reaper was finished, he took a step back and admired his handiwork.

"Ah yes," he said happily. "Perfect symmetry."

A closer look proved to Alfred that, in fact, the bottles were now arranged to be perfectly symmetrical in every way. Not a label or neck was different on the left from on the right. He smiled faintly.

"And I thought Iggy was meticulous," he commented.

"Iggy?" Kid asked curiously. "Who's Iggy?"

"That's what I call England to piss him off," said Alfred. "So what, you like symmetry? That's kinda weird."

Kid froze.

"What," he said quietly. "Did you. Just say?"

"It's weird that you're so obsessed with symmetry," Alfred pointed out, ignoring the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he should shut the hell up if he valued his life.

It took about five seconds for Kid to turn around and face him…

…and less than a millionth of that time for the young reaper to grab his collar and drag him forward until their noses were less than an inch apart.

"What gives you the right to say anything like that?" Kid demanded. "I'll have you know that symmetry is the greatest form of absolute perfection that could ever exist! Symmetry is everything, do you understand?!"

"Hey, chillax!" Alfred wrenched the reaper's freezing hands away from him. "You're starting to freak me out!"

After a few seconds, Kid appeared to relax somewhat. When Alfred released his wrists, the boy vaulted over the bar and sat back down on his stool in one swift movement.

"The hell was that about?" asked Alfred.

"It's simple," said Kid. "Symmetry is imperative; everything must be aesthetically pleasing. That's why I chose the Thompson sisters as my weapons, because as twin pistols they are identical in every way. When I hold them both in my hands I am perfectly balanced on the left and right, but it's imperfect because their human forms are so different."

He clutched his temples with his hands as though thinking was painful.

"Their hairstyles and height, for example."

He balled his hands into tightly clenched fists and slammed them down onto the bar, almost upsetting his glass.

"Even their boobs are different sizes!" he lamented. "And it's not just them: I can barely go a single moment without worrying that something's imperfect! Did I forget to fold the tip of the toilet paper into a triangle? Is the painting in my living room leaning to the right?"

He froze as though turning into stone.

"What if it is?" he asked. "What if my entire home is in complete disarray because of my neglect? Oh no, what kind of person am I if I can't even keep my own home in a fit state to live in?"

"Dude…"

Alfred honestly had no idea what to say as Kid slumped forward, almost hitting his nose on the bar, and started beating it with his fist.

"I can't go on like this," the boy moaned. "I don't even deserve to be called a Grim Reaper. I should just crawl into a hole in the ground and let the world forget about me!"

It was only when he started shaking that Alfred realised.

Death the Kid was crying.

'Wow,' the nation thought. 'This is the son of Death himself? I mean, it's like he acts all tough and stuff, but he's obviously got issues up the ass. He's, well, a kid.'

He placed a comforting hand on the weeping reaper's back, and a pair of dripping golden eyes turned in his direction, so he felt it might be appropriate to add a smile too.

It wasn't long before Kid was smiling back, and found the courage to sit up straight.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?" asked Alfred. "I didn't really do anything."

"No," said Kid, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, "but I guess that's something I needed to get off my chest without having anyone tell me I was just being stupid or that there were more important things to do."

Alfred sipped his drink again.

"I know the feeling," he said. "Being a country isn't really something you can talk about. There're perks and all – barely a night goes by when France doesn't have a new girlfriend and you probably already saw that it takes a _lot_ for us to get drunk, but-"

"You never get an opportunity to talk about the downsides," Kid finished for him. "You could talk to your fellow countries, but you don't know if they'd listen or if they'd be able to understand how you feel."

"Again, you nailed it," said Alfred. "You haven't met any nations before, have you?"

"No, you're the first," said Kid. "I suppose I should consider myself lucky that you're not a flamboyant sex pervert or a total creep."

'How the hell does he know?' thought the nation.

He once more looked down at the passed out Gilbert, still drooling, who was now mumbling about someone called Lizzy.

"Doesn't look like Ludwig's gonna show anytime soon," he commented. "Shoulda known better than to trust Feliciano to pass on a message."

"Ludwig and Feliciano?" Kid said inquisitively.

"Germany and Italy," Alfred explained.

He bent down, grabbed Gilbert's arm and hoisted the unconscious albino onto his shoulders.

"You know where I can find a tattoo parlour at this time of night?" he asked.

"Sorry, no," said Kid. "Are you leaving then?"

"Yeah, it's getting late," said Alfred. "Iggy hates it when I stay out too late."

He started heading for the door, throwing several banknotes onto the bar as he went.

"It was interesting to meet you, Kid," he said on the way out.

Kid watched as his hunched form disappeared through the door.

"Interesting to meet you too, America," he said with a smile.

He looked around the room at all the other patrons. Many were sitting in the shadows trying to hide their faces while others just looked depressed, but in any case, he felt comfortable.

You'll find that there's a bar like it in every single universe that has ever existed or ever will exist in the future. There's one in this world too if you search for it in the right place. It's not so much a bar for freaks or weirdos as such, it's just…

It's a place where people can be themselves.


End file.
